A Collection of Novellas: An Accompaniment to a Journey for Business or Pleasure

By George Renton

This book contains four stories in which mystery, intrigue, crime and love are the principal themes.

1) FLOORBOARDS
Who broke into an old lady’s home and sawed through the floorboards? This seemingly pointless act of vandalism conceals a dark intrigue set in 1940s Britain. Readers who are fascinated by this era will appreciate this story.

2) THE OSMOSIS AFFAIR
Foreign business trips are not always a free holiday at the expense of the shareholders. A young export salesman discovers the perils of doing business with unscrupulous people in countries where the rule of law is not well established. It may be wise to read this story before setting out on an export sales trip.

3) HIDDEN IMAGES
A man’s past is a mysterious place; unfathomable to others. In his declining years an Italian artist strives to eternalize his gratitude to those who spared the life of a teenager.

4) SAVED BY MORSE
Love can and does blossom in the most unexpected circumstances. Deafness is no impediment to love.

The author presents meticulously conceived novellas....
Characters are introduced with swift sureness that renders their reality beyond doubt.......

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jan 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781728397900

George Renton

As a student, the author studied both science and modern foreign languages. After university he became an exporter of capital equipment travelling widely and living in foreign countries for lengthy periods. Such prolonged contact with peoples of other cultures enabled him to appreciate their humanity and dignity. Now in retirement he enjoys a secluded life and finds relaxation in devising scenarios based on his experiences. When not seated at his word processor, he likes trying to solve mathematical brain teasers.

Book preview

FLOORBOARDS

Who broke into an old lady’s house and

sawed through the floorboards?

This seemingly pointless act of vandalism

conceals a dark intrigue.

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CHAPTER ONE

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I n 1926, Karl Kammerer’s father, a metallurgical specialist and senior employee of Graumetall AG, was sent to manage the company’s office in Britain. He and his whole family moved into a house in Wimbledon rented by the company and Karl, then aged seven, was enrolled at a feepaying school a short bus ride away from the new family home. Every day the boy mixed with other local boys and quickly broadened and deepened the knowledge of the English he had acquired from a tutor in his native Germany. Within a few months nobody would have suspected that English was not his mother tongue. The only occasions when he spoke German were in the evenings and at weekends with his parents and their friends and business associates. His mother taught him German history and ensured that he read German classical literature in his spare time. He had what might be termed a bi-lingual upbringing. Apart from languages, Karl proved to be a capable pupil; good at mathematics and physics and keenly competitive on the sports field.

In 1933, Hitler became Reichskanzler and Karl, then aged fourteen, moved back to Germany with his parents. He joined the Hitler Youth and became a dedicated Nazi. In 1938 he enlisted in the Luftwaffe and trained as a pilot. It was as an airman that he began the World War ll.

In March 1944, he was sent on a reconnaissance mission over Kent and Essex to take aerial photos of General Patton’s FUSAG (4th US Army Group). The Abwehr expected the Allies to launch an assault on Hitler’s Fortress Europe in the Pas de Calais and so, Kent and Essex being the obvious places from which to launch the attack, the Abwehr needed up-to-date intelligence on the deployment of US Army units in these two counties. Somewhere north west of Southend, just before nightfall, his mission complete, he turned to steer a course for his base in occupied France. As he did so, the engine of his Me 109 spluttered and at the same time a fine mist of oil crept over the windscreen. The aircraft began to lose power and to avoid a stall, he put the nose down in a dive toward the ground. He was sure that he had not been hit by a shell fired from an RAF fighter or even from an ACAC battery. Verdammt he muttered as he realised that it was an engine malfunction that was bringing him down, not the enemy. He cursed the ground crew for their incompetence as it dawned upon him that faulty maintenance or perhaps a shortage of spare parts would not only prevent him from returning to base and spending a convivial evening in the mess with his fellow officers but also change the whole course of his life; within a few short minutes he would be an enemy airman, possibly even a prisoner of war in a country which he had helped to bomb. His whole future had suddenly become uncertain and he felt a cold shudder go up and down his spine. However, in the immediate he would need to bail out; the chances of surviving a crash landing, in a field, at dusk with a windscreen partly obscured by oil were nil.

He fell out of the cockpit, deployed his parachute and came down in a field without suffering any injury. Scanning the horizon he saw to his dismay two farm hands coming towards him. He decided against using his pistol and so put his hands up to signify surrender. Even if he managed to shoot them, his Luftwaffe flying suit and boots would give him away and stop him from getting far. It was already dark when the police arrested him and put him in a cell at the local police station. From there he was taken to a detention centre for Luftwaffe officers located in a requisitioned office block adjacent to an Italian POW camp in Rayners Lane, near Harrow-on-the-Hill, Middlesex.

In the days and weeks that followed, despite many inducements on the part of his interrogators, such as schnapps, cigarettes and chocolate, he stubbornly refused to reveal any more than his name, rank and number. Moreover, he responded to all questions through an interpreter, having decided that it might make his escape easier if his captors were unaware that he had learned to speak their language as a child. Feigning incomprehension when hearing English spoken around him required an effort of concentration that even his disciplined mind sometimes found taxing. However, after many unsuccessful attempts to find out more, his captors lost interest in him and he was listed as a committed Nazi. He had made this plain; at the end of each interview with intelligence officers he would raise his arm in a Nazi salute and shout Heil Hitler. Other Luftwaffe prisoners in his block, weary of the war and harbouring disenchantment with Hitler, warned him that his open displays of dedication to Nazism would lead to his transfer to a more remote camp. He heeded these warnings and avoided drawing attention to himself. It was well known POWs were no longer being sent to Canada, not even the rebellious ones. Nevertheless, being sent to a camp somewhere in the moors or the highlands would make escape more difficult. Unlike his fellow prisoners, he still believed in the Third Reich and wanted to escape. In the south of England there was more chance of stowing away on a neutral ship bound for Portugal or Spain.

It was in early May 1944, at five past four in the morning, that a UXB (unexploded bomb) which had fallen near the prison camp and lain undetected for months, suddenly detonated and damaged an electrical substation. The camp security systems were without power and the grounds surrounding the main buildings were plunged into darkness. Karl needed no second bidding. He was out of a corridor window, down an outside drainpipe and across the yard to the wire before the guards could be roused and the premises patrolled with dogs. A few more minutes with wire cutters and he was free.

The night air was fresh but not cold. He walked with a steady, purposeful step but was careful not to be seen hurrying. A policeman patrolling his beat might think it suspicious to see someone running through the darkened streets. He knew that the camp was situated on the outskirts of London and not far from Harrow-on-the-Hill where in the 1930s he used to go with his parents to spend weekends with one of his father’s business associates. If still alive and still resident in the same house, the Eriksons might be able to help him. He tried to remember the address and could visualise a detached house at the end of a cul-de-sac called Burnham Close or something similar.

However, at that immediate moment, he knew his task was to get as far away from the camp as he could before his captors became aware of his escape. He walked on and on in the darkness, not quite sure where he was. Eventually, the dawn came up prompting him to stop in order to get his bearings. On the opposite side of the road there was a chapel with a noticeboard outside. He crossed the road to inspect it in the hope that it might provide some clue to his whereabouts and so help him work out which way to go to get to Burnham Close. Apart from the times of services, the notice board provided him with the clue he needed. It informed passers-by that the H––w Methodist Chapel was planning a tea party for local children the following Saturday. Omitting the middle letters of the place name was intended to confuse enemy parachutists who might be part of an airborne invasion but it did not deceive Karl.

He was sure that he had arrived in Harrow and all that remained was to locate Burnham Close. It occurred to him that in the morning light his uniform tunic, with its insignias and epaulettes, would be a giveaway and so he took it off to dispose of it as best he could, but decided that without it he would look underdressed and feel chilly. He then turned the tunic inside out and put it back on. From a distance the plain grey lining of the tunic would attract less attention, he thought. The chimes on a local clock told him that it was five in the morning. He walked on looking up all the while searching for a familiar landmark. Then he saw the steeple of St Mary’s church high up on the hill. He knew where he was and within less than ten minutes he was in Burnham Close in front of the house where an indulgent Mrs Erikson used to spoil him during weekend visits before the war.

A thought then occurred to him; it would be better to reconnoitre the premises before knocking on the door. As casually as he could, he walked up the garden path, then turned and pushed open the gate leading to the back garden. From the end of the path which ran along the side of the house he recognised the old garden shed behind the rockery. It was reassuring to see that everything was as it had been some eleven years previously. It might mean that there had been no change of owner. The garden shed would be an ideal spot to hide and observe the house in order to see if it was still occupied by the Eriksons. He slipped inside the shed, sat down on an upturned crate, leant his head against the wall and within seconds was fast asleep. For the next few hours he dozed, waking for a minute or two and then nodding off.

It was shortly after ten when Karl heard a noise in the garden which alerted him to somebody’s presence only a few yards from the shed. He looked out of the grimy window and saw a woman, carpet sweeper in hand, beating a rug suspended on a washing line. He recognised her as Mabel, Mrs Erikson. He was relieved to see her, because it meant that the Eriksons were still in residence and might be prepared to help him. He waited for her to finish flogging the rug and to go inside before leaving the shed and walking casually up the garden path and knocking on the kitchen door.

He waited a long moment and then saw Mabel through the glass coming to see who it was asking admittance at the kitchen door. He smiled at her and she stared wide-eyed at him. She did not recognise this unexpected visitor, all the more unexpected because he was at the back of the house.

Yes? she enquired as she opened the door.

Mrs Erikson. Mabel. It’s me. Karl. he said in a whisper.

Karl? Karl who?

You remember. Karl Kammerer he said as softly as he could.

Mabel Erikson blinked and nearly fell over backwards. She stared at him mouth agape whilst her memory went into overdrive and then, having recovered her wits, beckoned him into the kitchen with an impatient hand gesture. He was the last person she expected to see and she wanted him to explain what he was doing calling on her. However, it would be unwise to get him to tell his story where somebody might be just close enough to overhear it.

How did you get here? You and your parents went back to Germany - it must have been ten or more years ago. What’s that you are wearing? It looks like a tunic turned inside out.

Karl took his tunic off and turned back the right way. She gave a gasp when she saw the insignia and epaulettes on what was clearly a German uniform. She thought for a brief moment.

That’s a Luftwaffe uniform. Isn’t it? How did you get here? What do you want? Why do you want to cause us trouble? Walter already had enough trouble back in 1940 because of his German ancestry and his connection with your father. You want to get him detained again?

I think I should explain he said realising that the plan he had hastily devised whilst walking from Rayners Lane to Harrow had not envisaged such questions. He decided to play for time.

I’m thirsty. Please, could I have something to drink?

She stared at him, unsure about what to do next. Then remembering that there was still some tea left in the pot, she put the kettle on. A little hot water would revive what remained of the tea they had had for breakfast.

This pause allowed Karl time to think. From her reaction to his uniform and what she had said, he felt it best to assume that the Eriksons were unlikely to be Nazi sympathisers. Nonetheless, they might still be willing and able to help him. As he watched her pour some hot water into the teapot, an idea began to develop in his mind. He knew he would have to make up a story as he spoke. The next few minutes would be crucial.

I have escaped the Fatherland because it is no longer worthy of the sacrifices we are all making.

He noted that these words seemed to soften her attitude and so continued to develop a wholly fictional account of how he happened to appear at her back door. He told her that he had wanted to switch sides and had chosen his moment to defect during a reconnaissance mission. Clearly it would be impossible to land at an airfield because an Me 109 approaching an airfield would be shot down and he would like as not be killed. Therefore he had decided to put his aircraft into a dive over empty farmland and bail out.

Mabel listened in rapt attention, only stopping to pour some tea into an enamel mug and hand it to him. She was wondering what to do for the best. Should she call the police and hand over an enemy airman? Involving the authorities would surely mean that she and Walter would undergo extensive investigation. When first detained in 1940 under the 18B regulations Walter’s mental health had taken a turn for the worse. Although born in Germany to a German father and English mother, he had been raised in Britain by his English aunt and considered himself to be wholly British. The fact that in the 1920s and 30s he had played host to many German business partners did not mean that he was a Nazi sympathiser. His business connections with German enterprises, now essential props of the Nazi regime, were nothing other than normal international commerce. They detained him for only a week or so, but it took him months to recover from the stigma of it.

What are you planning to do? You can’t stay here. You must get out. Go far away from here. Give yourself up to the police. Don’t get us arrested for spying. We are not fifth columnists collaborating with the enemy. We could be executed.

Mabel was totally unprepared for the situation that Karl’s appearance at her door had landed her in. In 1940, despite being entirely innocent, they had come under scrutiny simply because of Walter’s father and his business connections. But this was different. A Luftwaffe pilot in their kitchen would be impossible to explain, especially in the tense atmosphere of spring 1944 with everybody expecting the D-day Landings to take place within the next few weeks.

Try to understand my plight. I don’t want to be a Luftwaffe officer and I don’t want to be POW. I want to get away from all that.

He was thinking fast. He felt that she had believed him so far and wanted avoid saying anything that might cause her to distrust him. As he continued to develop his lie and win her sympathy, another idea came to him :

I speak English. Supposing I start a new life here. Become a civilian. Get a new identity. Find work. I could disappear and put my life in Germany behind me.

At this point the kitchen door opened and in came a man in late middle age.

What’s going on? I was sleeping and something woke me. I heard voices.

Walter, this is Karl. You remember - Karl. Kammerer’s boy.

Walter stared at him in disbelief. Then his eye alighted on the Luftwaffe tunic.

Who are you and what are you doing here?

I am Karl Kammerer. Many years ago my father used to bring me here at weekends. Don’t you remember?

He paused for a moment and then continued.

"I don’t want to risk my life for the Third Reich any more. I want to settle here, far away from Nazism. I want a new life here, as a civilian. I speak English. I want to find work here. I spent a lot of